The first screw would not move. I pressed the screwdriver harder against its worn head, but the handle slipped in my damp palm. My shoulder reacted to the effort with a pain so intense that I had to lower my arm. I rested my cheek against the cool cabinet door and counted several shallow breaths. Beyond the kitchen, the television continued playing. I could hear Gerald commenting on the program and Brenda moving her dishes. If I made enough noise to draw their attention, I would lose the only chance I had.
The wooden boards were mounted across the lower part of the back window. Brandon had installed them months earlier, explaining that someone had attempted to enter a neighboring house. He had purchased thick pieces of lumber and secured them from inside. At the time, I watched him work and admired how seriously he took our safety. Now I wondered whether the boards had ever been intended to keep anyone out.
I adjusted my grip on the screwdriver. The second attempt shifted the screw a fraction. I waited, listening for movement behind me. Nobody came. I turned it again, slowly, using the limited strength remaining in my right arm. The metal made a faint scraping sound against the wood. Each rotation required another pause, but eventually the screw loosened enough that I could remove it with my fingers.
The first board remained firmly attached at the other end. I moved along the cabinet beneath the window, trying not to twist my torso. My injured left leg trailed behind me, useless and painfully heavy. I could feel cold air entering through a narrow gap in the frame. Beyond the glass, the backyard was dark except for the glow of a neighboring porch light. That small circle of yellow light became the place I concentrated on whenever my vision began to blur.
I remembered the afternoon Brandon installed the boards. Brenda had complained that I left the window unlocked while cooking. She said I was careless and would someday invite a burglar inside. Gerald stood beside his son, passing him screws and tools. I offered to help, but Brenda sent me upstairs to fold towels. Later, when I noticed the window could no longer open properly, Brandon told me to stop worrying about inconveniences and appreciate the protection he provided.
The board shifted beneath my hand. I nearly cried out from relief. I caught the loose end before it struck the cabinet and lowered it to the floor. One remained. Its screws were tighter, and my hand had begun to shake badly. I could feel the warmth draining from my fingers. At the table, a chair scraped backward. I froze, pressing myself against the cabinets.
Footsteps crossed the dining room. They stopped near the kitchen entrance. I could not see who stood there because the counter obscured my view. My heart beat so hard that I feared the sound would betray me. A cabinet opened on the opposite side of the room. Then I heard Gerald mutter about the missing coffee and return toward the television. I closed my eyes, waiting until his footsteps receded.
I worked on the final screws without allowing myself to imagine what might happen if they discovered me. The screwdriver slipped repeatedly. Once, it struck my knuckles against the frame. The sharp new pain barely registered beside the injuries already spreading through my body. I loosened the board, caught it against my forearm, and eased it down. A narrow opening remained beneath the window.
It did not look large enough. I measured it with my eyes, comparing the space to the width of my shoulders. I could not lift my injured arm properly, and my leg would not bend without pain. To get through, I would have to pull myself upward and turn sideways. I understood that the attempt could worsen whatever injuries I had suffered. Remaining where I was seemed far more dangerous.
I gripped the lower window frame with my right hand and pulled. My first attempt accomplished almost nothing. My body rose only slightly before dropping back onto the floor. I tasted blood and swallowed against nausea. I tried again, using the cabinet edge to support my weight. This time I managed to rest part of my upper body against the sill. The rough wood pressed into my damaged ribs.
Outside, the grass looked wet. The evening had turned cold, and the air coming through the opening carried the smell of damp soil. Somewhere beyond the hedge, a dog barked. I remembered walking through that same yard on warm summer afternoons, carrying laundry or tending the small patch of flowers Brenda allowed beside the fence. I had never considered how long the distance to the neighboring house might feel to someone who could barely move.
I pushed my right shoulder through first. My clothing caught against a rough edge, pulling tightly across my back. I shifted, biting down on the inside of my cheek to keep from crying out. My left arm resisted the movement, and for a moment I thought I would become trapped halfway through. I forced myself to continue. The fabric tore, and my body slid forward abruptly.
I fell onto the grass beneath the window. The impact struck through my injured side, leaving me unable to breathe for several seconds. The sky spun above me. I could see a few faint stars between the branches of the trees. Moisture seeped through my dress, chilling my skin. I lay there trying to understand that I had reached the outside of the house.
From the open window came Brenda's voice. She was complaining that the kitchen would need cleaning before breakfast. Brandon answered that I could take care of it when I stopped being dramatic. His words reached me clearly through the night air. I turned my face away from the window, afraid he might notice movement outside.
The nearest gate was beyond the driveway, too far for me to reach. Mrs. Gable's house stood on the other side of a low hedge, separated from the property by only a narrow strip of lawn. She was a widow nearing seventy, with short silver hair and a habit of leaving her porch light on after sunset. During my first summer in the neighborhood, she had offered me tomatoes from her garden. Brenda later criticized me for accepting food without permission.
Mrs. Gable never asked intrusive questions. If we met while collecting the mail, she would speak about the weather or the flowers growing beside her fence. Once, when she saw a bruise near my wrist, she looked at it for longer than usual. I told her I had caught my arm in a cupboard. She did not challenge the explanation, but I remembered the concern in her eyes. I had avoided speaking to her afterward because Brandon disliked what he called neighborhood gossip.
I began moving toward her porch. My left leg dragged behind me, and I pulled myself forward using my elbows and right knee. The grass was slippery. Each movement pressed against my ribs, sending sharp pain through my chest. I could not call loudly enough to reach her from the yard, and I was afraid that raising my voice would bring Brandon outside before anyone else heard me.
The hedge scratched my face as I pushed through an opening near the fence. Mud covered my hands and the front of my dress. I stopped repeatedly when the dizziness worsened, pressing my forehead against the ground until the sensation passed. The porch light appeared and disappeared as I moved between the shrubs. It was close enough that I could distinguish the individual wooden steps, yet reaching them required more effort than anything I had ever done.
I thought of my mother. Not as she had looked when we last argued, standing in her kitchen with tears she refused to let fall, but as she had been when I was a child. She used to sit beside my bed during storms, one hand resting on the blanket until I fell asleep. I had spent four years convincing myself that she was controlling and unreasonable. Now I wanted nothing more complicated than to hear her voice again.
My fingers touched the first porch step. I tried to raise myself, but my injured leg refused to support me. I struck the wooden surface with the side of my fist. The sound seemed painfully small. I waited, listening for footsteps. Nothing happened. I hit the step again and attempted to call Mrs. Gable's name. What came out was a rough whisper.
Inside the house, a lamp switched on. I saw movement through the curtain and gathered the last of my strength. I struck the door itself, my hand barely reaching its lower panel. The hinges creaked a moment later. Warm light spread across the porch, and Mrs. Gable appeared in a knitted cardigan and slippers.
She looked down, and her expression changed before she spoke. I saw her hand rise toward her mouth. "Fiona?" she asked. She descended the steps carefully, then knelt beside me without seeming to notice the mud soaking into her clothes. Her fingers touched my uninjured shoulder. She asked who had done this and whether I could hear her. I tried to answer, but my breath came in short, uneven sounds.
"Don't try to get up," she said. Her voice was trembling, although her hands remained steady. She took a phone from her cardigan pocket and called emergency services. I could hear her explaining our location, describing my injuries, and asking for an ambulance. When the dispatcher questioned her, she looked down at me and said clearly that her neighbor had been severely hurt and needed help immediately.
I wanted to tell her about Brenda, the rolling pin, and the two men who had watched. Instead, I caught her sleeve between my fingers. She bent close enough that I could speak without raising my voice. "Please don't let them take me back," I whispered. Her face tightened. She covered my hand with hers and told me that she would stay until help arrived.
I remember the ambulance siren more clearly than the moments before it. Red light flickered across the side of Mrs. Gable's house. Someone asked me questions I could not answer. Hands moved carefully beneath my shoulders and legs. I cried out when they lifted me, then apologized automatically. A paramedic told me that I had nothing to apologize for. Those words followed me into darkness.
When I opened my eyes again, fluorescent lights shone above a hospital bed. A monitor sounded beside me. My left leg was immobilized, and my shoulder had been secured to prevent movement. The pain was still present, but it had become more distant, as though medication had placed a thin barrier between my injuries and my thoughts. I tried to sit up and immediately discovered that I could not.
A nurse entered when she noticed I was awake. Her name badge read Hannah. She approached slowly, checked the equipment beside my bed, and asked whether I knew where I was. I recognized the name of the hospital but could not remember arriving. Hannah told me that I had been brought in after a serious assault. The doctors had identified fractured ribs, a dislocated shoulder, an injury to my left leg, and extensive bruising. They were monitoring my breathing and watching for complications.
I listened to her explanation while staring at the white blanket covering my body. It felt strange to hear my injuries described so plainly. At home, I had grown accustomed to hearing that I exaggerated discomfort and made minor incidents sound dramatic. Here, the injuries had names. They appeared on scans. People took them seriously without requiring me to prove that I deserved their concern.
Hannah asked whether I felt safe having my husband contacted. The question startled me. For a moment, the familiar instinct to protect Brandon rose before I could stop it. I imagined him standing beside the hospital bed, explaining everything as an accident. I imagined Brenda arriving with an apology and a list of reasons I had provoked her. My pulse quickened, and Hannah noticed immediately.
"No," I answered. My voice was weak, but the word was clear. "Please don't call him." Hannah nodded and told me the staff could restrict information about my location. She explained that I could decide who was allowed to visit. I asked whether Brandon could demand access because we were married. She told me that my safety and consent mattered.
The relief was so unfamiliar that I began to cry. Hannah pulled a chair beside the bed and remained there while I tried to compose myself. She did not tell me to be strong or suggest that everything would be fine. She simply asked whether there was someone I trusted enough to contact.
For several seconds, I could think of nobody. Then I remembered a telephone number I had known since childhood, long before I met Brandon. I had deleted it from my mobile phone after one of our arguments, but the digits remained fixed in my memory.
I asked Hannah whether I could borrow a phone.
She handed me hers. My fingers shook as I entered the number. When the call connected, I heard my mother's familiar voice after three rings.
"Hello?"
I tried to speak and found that my throat had closed.
"Mom," I finally managed.
There was a silence, followed by a sharp intake of breath.
"Fiona? Honey, what's happened?"
I looked toward Hannah, who quietly stepped away to give me privacy. Four years of excuses crowded into my mind, and for the first time I refused to use any of them.
"They hurt me," I whispered. "Brandon and his family. I'm in the hospital."
My mother's response was immediate. She asked where I was, whether I was alone, and whether I needed her to call the police. I gave her the hospital's name and told her I did not want to return to the house. Her voice shook when she promised she was coming.
After the call ended, I rested the phone against the blanket. My body still hurt, and I had no idea what would happen when Brandon discovered that I had escaped.
But I had told someone the truth.
